


Teeth Bared and Bloody

by AvoidingAverage



Series: A Light in the Dark [3]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Feral Behavior, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Injury Recovery, Jaskier is unleashed, Jaskier | Dandelion Can Take Care of Himself, Jaskier | Dandelion Has a Past, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Saves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Revenge, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:47:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23757103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvoidingAverage/pseuds/AvoidingAverage
Summary: He watched them grab Geralt by the long hair Jaskier had spent so many nights running his fingers through and raise the warrior’s head up to expose his throat.  Golden eyes flickered listlessly, dulled by pain.  Geralt’s arms twitched in a weak attempt to fight back as one of the soldier’s arms raised high above his head.There was a flicker of moonlight on cold steel and then it was falling.And all Jaskier could do was watch.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: A Light in the Dark [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1603897
Comments: 95
Kudos: 948
Collections: Angsty Angst Times





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is going to be an exercise in trust because I promise you the tags are accurate, but it's going to be pretty painful before we reach our happy ending. No major character deaths here. At least, never permanently.
> 
> On the other hand, this is easily the most feral Jaskier I've ever written and boy is he about to mess some shit up. I anticipate this fic being about three to four chapters long, but I'll probably wait to see what you think before I flesh out the next chapters.
> 
> In terms of timeline with the rest of the series, this takes place a few months after Julian kills Kiel and Geralt has recovered Ciri.

Jaskier killed the first guard on the narrow walkway that lined the portcullis.

He didn’t bother to watch him fall--there was little chance on anyone surviving a hit like  _ that _ \--and continued walking forward. Someone shouted an alarm from somewhere nearby, but he ignored them. Another guard raced around the corner with his pike held high and Jaskier let the dagger in his right hand sink with satisfying accuracy into the man’s throat. Blood sprayed in a gory arc that splattered against Jaskier’s silk doublet.

He ignored it. Just as he ignored the way his mind felt like it was filling with some vast, terrible darkness. All he could do was complete this final task before he let it consume him.

The handle of the pike was rough in his hands and it was longer than he’d like, but it worked well enough to stab deep into the soft belly of his next foe and send him screaming off the edge of the wall. He let the weapon fall after him, filching the sword and shield from his previous victim and continuing his bloody path forward. The soldiers were aware of his presence now and a dark part of him relished the cries of alarm. They thought they were being attacked by some invading army, eager to finish off what was left of Nilfgaard.

He could hear their footsteps thundering up the stairs and resisted the urge to bar the door and find another way into the keep. This wasn’t about avoiding bloodshed. This was revenge, plain and simple. Revenge was the only thing he was capable of now. Whatever was left of Jaskier had died the moment he’d watched his world fall apart.

It hovered behind his eyelids each time he allowed them to close. A flash of pale silver muddied by the blood of the drowned dead that lay twitching at his feet. Geralt’s eyes moved up to where Jaskier watched, safely on the other side of the lake near their camp. A quick smile and hand raised in a wave that jerked, sudden. 

Then they both were staring at the arrows that seemed to bloom out of the Witcher’s broad chest.

Jaskier could still feel the scream that never seemed to end behind gritted teeth as he watched in horror. Because that was all he could do as Geralt fell to his knees with none of his usual grace. Watch. 

He’d tried to run toward the soldiers that appeared out of the woods--easy to spot with their black uniforms. He’d raced along the edge of the lake, trying to force every ounce of speed into his limbs. The need for oxygen kept him from voicing the keening wail that only grew within his mind.

He watched them grab Geralt by the long hair Jaskier had spent so many nights running his fingers through and raise the warrior’s head up to expose his throat. Golden eyes flickered listlessly, dulled by pain. Geralt’s arms twitched in a weak attempt to fight back as one of the soldier’s arms raised high above his head.

There was a flicker of moonlight on cold steel and then it was falling.

And all Jaskier could do was watch.

* * *

“It’s just a couple of drowners,” Geralt rumbled, running a hand through his hair, “I’ll probably have them finished off by nightfall.”

The Witcher’s expression was distant and Jaskier knew from experience that he was mentally logging each of his weapons and the potions he would need for the fight. The alderman hadn’t thought there were more than a handful of the creatures preying on a local popular fishing spot, but Geralt always preferred to be prepared for the worst. It made Jaskier smiled from where he was still lounging on the sun-warm grass at their campsite.

“Drowners are so  _ boring _ though. You need to hunt down something interesting if I’m going to make a new song.”

“Hmm,” Geralt replied, but Jaskier knew him well enough now to see the small grin in the subtle crinkles around his eyes.

To think that only a few months before, Jaskier had been convinced he could never  _ have _ this. That he would never know what it was like to go to sleep and wake up with the warm weight of Geralt sleeping at his side. He’d been so sure after Geralt had left him and again when the Witcher had learned the truth about his past that the older man would choose to leave him for someone simpler, easier. 

In the months since Malek and Kiel, Jaskier and Geralt had slowly begun to find their rhythm once more. It had taken time to find a way to move forward when their pasts had so recently wounded them, but they eventually found their new normal. Julian Pankratz was safely replaced by Jaskier, who continued to follow in Geralt’s footsteps. The Witcher didn’t want the warrior Jaskier had been trying to erase and Jaskier was more than willing to leave the bloody part of himself in the arena.

They returned to the Path and fell into the same patterns that had worked so well before--with one, major difference.

Now Jaskier knew what it was like to look at the Witcher without fearing rejection or pain. He knew that the love that had taken root in his heart so long ago was matched evenly with the same dedication in Geralt. They spent their evenings learning what it was to love and be loved and their days filled with the heady sensation of true peace.

It was  _ perfect _ .

Geralt interrupted his smug thoughts to lean forward and press a kiss to Jaskier’s smiling mouth. He lingered until the bard’s heart had to be thundering loud enough for him to hear then he moved back to cup his cheek in a gesture so gentle Jaskier could have wept. “Stay on this side of the lake,” he ordered with a wry smile, “I don’t want you attracting the drowners with all your warbling.”

“As if  _ I _ would allow something so pedestrian as a drowner to lay hands on me,” Jaskier scoffed.

Geralt smiled and Jaskier preened with the knowledge that this was  _ his _ . Only  _ he _ would ever be able to see this side of the White Wolf of legend.

“Roach,” the Witcher called over to the brown mare who was pointedly ignoring them in favor of ridding the world of meadowgrass, one piece at a time, “you’re in charge.”

Jaskier squawked indignantly and Geralt chuckled before disappearing into the trees with a jaunty wave over one shoulder.

* * *

Later, much later, Jaskier would hate himself for allowing that moment to end without him telling Geralt he loved him one last time.

* * *

He met the next blade with a feral snarl and kicked out with a booted foot to send the man tumbling into the soldier behind him. The next blow landed against his shield and he grunted as he turned to put his shoulder behind the block and ram himself into the group like a battering ram. It was easy to limit their advantage of numbers in the narrow walkway and he took grim satisfaction each time one of them fell or was trampled beneath the feet of one of the others.

These were the men who had stolen Geralt from him. They had taken the most giving, loving person he’d ever known and struck him down like he was meaningless. Like he was  _ nothing _ .

Jaskier intended to return the favor.

When it was only the bard and one of the soldiers left, he tossed aside the bloodied shield and narrowed his eyes on the trembling man at his feet. The soldier couldn’t have been more than twenty summers, but Jaskier was too numb to feel mercy. This boy had agreed to help the army responsible for raping and pillaging all of Cintra and the region around it. 

“Where is your commander?” he asked, his voice rough with the screams he couldn’t voice.

The soldier’s eyes widened and he began to shake his head. Without hesitation, Jaskier pulled the knife free from his belt and plunged it deep into the meat of the other man’s shoulder, pinning him to the wall. It went in easily, the training of his old teachers still strong even after all these years.

When the boy stopped screaming long enough to draw a shuddering breath, Jaskier spoke again.

“Where is your commander?”

“I--I can’t, I don’t kno-” his stuttering protests cut off with a shriek when Jaskier twisted the knife. Tears streamed down his cheeks. 

Jaskier felt nothing.

“Where?” he said again, voice flat.

“They don’t tell us--” the soldier began to writhe in panic when Jaskier reached for his knife again and began babbling, “--He’s probably at the main keep now that the alarm has been raised. He--he wouldn’t going out until he knew who was attacking!”

Jaskier nodded at the new information. 

It was just as well that Cahir was hiding away within his fortress. That gave Jaskier plenty of time to wreak havoc and kill as many of his followers as he could on the way. He would paint this castle red with the blood of all the Nilfgaardians soldiers who had ever dared to believe they were worth more than his Witcher.

And it still wouldn’t be enough to staunch the gaping wound in his soul.

The bard reached out with two hands and snapped the soldier’s neck in a brutally efficient move. He had no kindness left in him, but he would at least give the man a quick death in return for the information he needed.

He looked around the bodies growing cold and still around him, tarnishing the once ordered guardhouse. A few still twitched with their last death throes, but Jaskier didn’t need to have a Witcher’s senses to know they were as good as dead. 

Methodically, he stripped them of their weapons and a few pieces of armor--none of the gear Geralt had left with Roach would fit him and he would need all the help he could get if he was to take the fortress. His fingers brushed over the wolf’s head medallion looped around his neck--still crusted with the blood of its former owner--and pushed away the parts of him that wanted to weep and scream at the universe for taking Geralt away after they’d finally achieved their happiness. He shoved aside all of the agony of being alone again and the pain of knowing that he hadn’t even been able to bury his Witcher before the soldiers had dragged him away as proof of their kill.

None of that would help him now.

All he had left was the revenge he intended to carve into every broken bone and drop of blood between himself and the man who’d killed Geralt.

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where I get to show off all my history degrees.
> 
> Slight Trigger Warning: While it's not specifically mentioned, Jaskier is pretty dark in this chapter. He has some suicidal tendencies but is not actively trying to kill himself.

No matter how much bloodlust was thundering in his veins, Jaskier knew it would take more than that to finish what he’d started.

_ Think _ , the voice of his old weapon’s master murmured in his mind, _ thinking wins wars. _

Jaskier was just one man and he still needed to get through the rest of the fortress to ensure Geralt’s death was avenged. Then he could contemplate how to survive a world where his heart no longer resided. So he turned down a hallway and ducked the next patrol of guards to search for the storage rooms. For now, he could move with relative ease while the soldiers attempted to figure out who was responsible for the deaths of so many of them. It would take time for them to blame it on a single attacker without any witnesses.

The next two Nilfgaardians he killed, he took the time to drag out of sight before entering the moderately large still room. If he could keep his route of entry disguised as long as possible, he could increase his chances of moving through the castle without difficulty. He scanned the neat rows of jars and potions that some aspiring mage must have spent a great deal of time on. Crushed herbs and drying plants helped cover the scent of the blood that had turned his blue tunic dark and stiff.

He picked up a bottle of white powder and smiled without humor at it. For once, he was grateful for the variety of martial arts he’d been taught as a child. It would make his attacks all the more satisfying and effective now. He tapped the cooling body of the mage with one foot in gratitude.

Grabbing a few extra empty bottles, he carefully poured the powder evenly between them, taking care not to breathe in the smoke raised when he disturbed it. He sealed them as quickly as he could before tying them with hemp to his belt in a way that wouldn’t risk breaking them. When they clinked softly at the movement, Jaskier added a few extra wrappings to muffle the sound.

Next he moved to a few of the darker powders lined along the wall, carefully sniffing over them until his nostrils filled with a sharp, familiar scent. There was only a little in the jar so he shifted to the oils instead. Lamp oil was easy to find and there was plenty in the large cannister set in the cupboard nearby. It would have to do.

Jaskier felt the tingle of magic in the air and had his blade up and ready the throw a moment before his nose registered the familiar scent of gooseberries and lilac. 

Yennefer.

The mage stepped out of the portal and looked around the still room with a worried frown. “Well this wasn’t what I imagined when my charm was triggered,” she said breezily.

Jaskier’s voice was flat. “What are you doing here?”

She frowned, unsettled by his response. Her eyes darted around the space, eyeing the Nilfgaardian sigils, even as the silence between them grew. “I put a charm on Geralt’s medallion--if his blood gets on it, I get an alert of sorts. I would have been here sooner, but I had to track you back from the village.”

He swallowed, unable to speak for the first time in his life.

“Where is Geralt?” He’d known the question was coming, but it still felt like a knife twisting in his chest. Every breath was raw agony, the words his mind summoned were shards of glass. All he could do was look at her with every bit of his desolation shining in his eyes. Yennefer shook her head as if she could reject what he was telling her. “What happened?” she rasped finally and some of the bitterness he still felt for her eased at the genuine sadness in her eyes.

“Nilfgaard. They set up a trap for him.”

In hindsight, that was the only explanation for how the soldiers had known exactly where Geralt would be that day. After all, what Witcher would respond to the call of a town in need? All they had to do was wait just outside the range of the drowned dead and keep an eye out for Geralt’s approach. 

If Jaskier survived this attack, he intended to question the alderman himself on his involvement with the scheme.

“You...you’re sure?” she asked, a hint of fragility in her voice, but then she shook her head. “Nevermind. What do you intend to do here?”

He turned back to the weapons he was crafting. “Kill them.”

“How? You’re only one man.”

“I know how to kill, Yennefer,” he said without emotion, “I am not just a bard.”

“Julian,” she said softly, reaching out like she wanted to touch him but thought better of it. For once, he didn’t flinch at the reminder of what he had been before he’d met Geralt. He needed the warrior his father had trained if he was going to finish this, “he wouldn’t want you to do this...He loved the bard, not the weapon.”

“The bard is dead.”

He turned away from her, but her hand fastened around his bicep, halting him with a gentle tug. The touch made him nearly vibrate against the urge to lash out against her. As if sensing how fragile his control was, Yennefer released him but didn’t move away.

“Geralt was my friend too,” she finally murmured, “He wouldn’t want you to go in there alone.”

“It’s all I have now.” The words felt like they were choking him and he stared at the far wall, struggling to force away the emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. His body trembled under the strain of staying still. “I have to finish this.”

Yennefer looked at the collection of bottles and jars he’d gathered before she nodded slowly. “Then at least let me help you. For Geralt’s sake.”

Jaskier’s eyes were dry and distant when he met her gaze, but he nodded. Having a mage would ensure that more of the Nilgaardians died for what they had done and he wasn’t going to pass up the opportunity to drag more to hell with him.

“Fine--but I get Cahir.”

* * *

The first explosion rocked the castle hard enough that he had to steady himself along the wall. 

He could hear screams outside and he grinned ferally at the thought of the soldiers meeting Yennefer’s wrath unexpectedly. This garrison really wasn’t designed to hold against any serious threat and Jaskier was certain Cahir never expected to have any response to his attack on Geralt. After all, Witchers died all the time and no one mourned their loss.

But none of them were loved so fiercely by Jaskier.

When he heard a group of soldiers rushing in the direction of the mage, he leaned out from his hiding place along the arrow slits and tossed one of the small containers he’d made in the still room. It landed perfectly in the front of the group and he watched the smoke rise amongst the soldiers in a small, pale cloud carried by the wind.

The quicklime worked quickly in the humid air left behind by the recent rains. Within moments, the soldiers were choking, wiping at their eyes as the potent chemical began to burn. Blinded, they could do little more than stumble around, trying desperately to escape the painful attack.

Whistling under his breath, Jaskier snatched the second group of bottles he’d collected and struck his flint against the rough stone wall. The wick burst into flame eagerly and he tossed it down to the soldiers below with careful aim. Soon screams of agony and the crackle of flames joined the noises of confusion as the lamp oil splattered by the broken bottle caught fire. It clung to his victims eagerly and he watched them writhe on the ground for a moment before tossing his other jars toward the stable and along the walls where hay and firewood was stored.

The pounding of horse hooves and winnies of alarm told him Yennefer had been successful in her task of setting the horses loose. It helped add to the general confusion and panic caused by Jaskier’s unexpected attacks. He guessed there were around fifty men stationed in the garrison and it wouldn’t take long before they were too frightened and confused to mount a proper defense. The younger soldiers had likely already fled.

He ducked out of the arrow slit quickly, keeping himself on the move so no sharp eyed sargeant noticed where the attacks were coming from. All he needed to do was ensure that as many soldiers moved into the courtyard and entrance as possible. It would leave Cahir with less protection and make his job much easier.

Another explosion signalled Yennefer had made her way to the castle walls to wreak havoc on the soldiers dumb enough to attempt to face down a mage with battle training. He doubted their weakened army would have anyone close to her caliber this far in the countryside.

Jaskier slowed near a corner and listened to two nervous guards.

“--can’t be Aretuza, they were nearly wiped out…”

“It’s that Witcher’s fault,” another whispered fiercely, “he’s cursed us all.”

“Shut it, you know the Witcher didn’t do shi--” His words cut off in a wet gasp thanks to the gaping slash across his neck. He stood for a moment, still shocked by his impending death before he collapsed.

Jaskier, for his part, didn’t bother to watch the dying man’s last moments. He took advantage of the shrill scream of terror by the other guard and hit him around the middle, riding him to the ground. The landing was hard enough to rattle his teeth but he was ready for it. The man beneath him had enough time to gasp before Jaskier’s dagger slid deep into his lung and twisted up into the arteries around his heart.

He waited until the man went still before crouching over the body and listening for any other attackers. At the end of the hall, he could see the large wooden door that marked the final barrier between himself and his target. It was the most protected section of the keep, designed to withstand after everything else had fallen.

Exactly where Cahir would hide as soon as he knew he was under attack.

One of the men had been carrying a heavy crossbow that was still loaded despite their struggles. Jaskier pulled his knife free, cleaning it on his victim’s pants, before sheathing it and slinging the crossbow over one shoulder. The area around the inner keep was designed to limit possible hiding places so he needed the long distance option if someone stumbled upon them. 

Then he leaned his back against the scarred wood and knocked on the door loudly enough that it shuddered. “Are you in there, Cahir?” he shouted with false cheer, “I’ve been looking for you.”

There was the sound of movement behind the wood and he smiled in vicious pleasure.

Jaskier started to speak again, but paused at the sound of footsteps running his way. He brought the crossbow up to his shoulder and waited until the soldier took his first step into the hallway. The twang of the crossbow bolt releasing ensured that he didn’t take a second. 

“Do you hear your men dying, commander?” Jaskier asked as he methodically began to reload the crossbow, the motions soothing in their familiarity, “It’s all for you.”

Cahir’s voice sounded furious and frantic. “Why are you doing this? I don’t even know you.”

The false cheer Jaskier had been hiding behind disappeared quickly enough that he felt cold and off balance in its wake. “You killed the man I loved.”

“The Witcher?” the commander’s voice was shrill, “He’s a monster. No one will care that he no longer walks this earth.”

His lips curled in disdain. “He was more human than you will ever be. You took him from me and I intend to  _ ruin _ you for that.”

“You’ll never get through the doors. My men will gut you where you stand, you little fool.”

There was a shout of alarm and he knew his time was running out. Cahir’s continued absence would attract the attention of his followers the longer he remained safely indoors. Another blast from outside indicated Yennefer was still merrily blasting her way through the men foolish enough to walk out into the open. It sounded like he’d brought an army with him to avenge Geralt and it pleased the darkest parts of his souls that Cahir could hear the chaos and tremble.

Taking out the last of the lamp oil he’d carried with him, Jaskier let the liquid drip over the door and into the stone floor. He tossed the used bottles over his shoulder, smiling as the sharp smell filled the air.

“Can you smell that, Cahir? Do you think you’ll survive when I set fire to the door?”

Jaskier pulled out the matches he’d brought with him and smiled at the sound of breathing on the other side of the door. “All it’ll take is one little match and both of our miseries will end...although I expect yours will last longer.”

“You wouldn’t dare.” Despite his words, Cahir’s voice held a tremor of fear.

“And why wouldn’t I? There’s nothing left for me here.” His lips twisted in wry agony at the reminder of all he’d lost. Wait for me, my love. “You’ll have enough time to cry out to your maker before the smoke takes you. Although I’ll hold out hope that you live long enough to feel the flames burning away your skin to reveal the cowardly bones beneath…”

He let the match drag across the ground until a bright flame popped to life between his fingers. The scent of smoke slowly became stronger in the hallway and he let the first match drop just outside of the puddle of lamp oil he’d spread.

“W-wait!”

Jaskier’s smile was sharp. “Do you want to beg? Do you think I’ll listen? Do you think anything you could ever say would make me stop from dropping this match--”

“The Witcher...he's’ alive.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know I love a good cliff hanger...


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier's rampage continues.

“What?” Jaskier breathed, feeling like he’d been kicked in the chest. He thought of the way the dagger had arced against the sun. The way Geralt’s body had jerked with the impact and gone limp. A burn at his fingertips reminded him of the lit match in his hands and he blew it out while forcing the ragged bits of hope away ruthlessly. “You’re lying. I watched your men kill him.”

Cahir’s laughter was cruel, stronger now that he knew what Jaskier wanted. “You saw what we wanted you to see,” he said. “I wanted him to suffer--dying in the woods was far too quick for him.”

“What did you do to him?” His voice was brittle. “Even a Witcher couldn’t survive a knife to the heart.”

“Funny thing, that knife,” Cahir said conversationally, “I had it enchanted by a witch just for this. She layered enough spells on it to ensure even a Witcher wouldn’t be able to move after he’d been stuck with it. From there all it took was dragging him back to the garrison so we could take our time with him.”

The image of Geralt collapsing in the midst of the soldiers felt like it was burned into his retinas. Now it carried an even deeper bite. If what Cahir had said was true, he’d left Geralt to be tortured by them. He’d  _ abandoned _ him.

“Why would I believe anything you say?” Jaskier bit out, twisting the last match over his blood stained fingers. “You just want to save your sorry hide.”

“You’ll believe me because you would never risk the chance that I was telling the truth.”

There was a long moment of silence while the truth of his words sunk in.

Then Jaskier spoke quietly. “Then where is he?”

“Why should I tell you? What guarantee do I have that you won’t just kill me.”

Jaskier’s lips twisting into a feral grimace. “Guess you’ll just have to hope that I’ll be too busy looking for him to waste my time with you.”

Cahir paused, considering his options, before grudgingly-- “He’s in the cellars. This keep is too small for the dungeons he deserves.”

Instinctively, Jaskier’s head turned toward the entrance to the cellars he’d passed on his way into the garrison. If he hurried, he could be there in minutes. It was the cruelest of dilemmas--risk allowing Cahir to escape or risk Geralt dying because he’d taken too long killing Cahir. Put that way, the choice was easy.

Jaskier sheathed the sword he’d been carrying and let the crossbow fall to the tiles with a clatter. He could practically hear the sigh of relief from Cahir as his footsteps moved away from the door and down the hall.

It almost overlapped the sound of the lit match hitting the oil near the door.

* * *

He was running by the time he’d reached the stairs, rebellious heart pounding despite the cynical protests of his mind. He was probably walking into a trap. Cahir just wanted to make Jaskier suffer even more in revenge for all the men he’d killed. One final torment before he burned to death in his tiny room.

It didn’t matter to his heart. 

It pounded wildly in his chest like a bird trapped in a cage as he leapt over the bodies of the soldiers he’d killed. There were shouts somewhere nearby, but he didn’t bother to halt his headlong dash. Not when it could mean Geralt’s life. 

When he reached the ground floor, he had to force himself to slow long enough to  _ think _ past his own panic. Revenge was easy. It was bloody and violent and visceral. A rescue would require more than one angry man could achieve on his own.

Another explosion shuddered the ground and Jaskier felt his mind hold onto the sound with all the fervor of a drowning man to rope. 

_ Yennefer _ .

If Geralt was alive, he would be injured and in need of a healer. There was no way Jaskier could carry him far enough to make it back to town, even if he could manage to find one of the horses. Roach was safely stabled in the closest tavern and no amount of whistling would bring her back. Which meant they would need a portal.

Shifting his direction towards the sounds of shouting and chaos, Jaskier reached into his pockets and pulled out the bottle that Yennefer had pressed into his hands before beginning her attack.  _ Just in case, _ she’d whispered. At the time he’d been too heartsick and wild with rage that he’d just shoved it into his pants with barely more than a grunt of agreement.

Now, he held it like it was a holy relic. He threw it onto the beaten earth of the courtyard and let himself make a small sound of relief when it released a faint whiff of smoke before disappearing. 

Waiting felt like agony, but it only took a few moments before Yennefer was running toward him, skirts raised in one hand and power crackling through the fingers of the other. Her violet eyes scanned him for injury with something close to worry.

“Jaskier?” she called, a little out of breath, “ What--”

“He’s alive,” Jaskier interrupted frantically, “Cahir said they’ve got him in the dungeons and I--”

“Cahir? Why would he…” Her brief expression of excitement faded into near painful understanding. “Jaskier…”

“He  _ told _ me, Yennefer. He said they brought him back.”

“Jaskier, you  _ saw _ them kill Geralt.” The words still brought a fresh wave of pain and he looked down. “Cahir was only trying to torment you for what you’ve done to him.”

Something in him broke at the open disbelief on her face. She’d already accepted that Geralt was dead and gone. She’d only come here in order to help him on his quest and get some revenge of her own. If he was smart, he would take the opportunity she presented and leave for the coast to grieve alone.

But he would never know peace until he was sure.

“I have to be sure,” he said on a shuddering breath, “I have to be sure before I accept that he’s gone.”

Her mouth twisted into a flat line and she looked off to the side with a huff. He had just begun to accept that he’d be doing this alone when she nodded stiffly. “Fine. Let’s finish this.”

Gratitude and affection filled some of the gaping wound in his chest and he gave her the closest thing to a smile he could produce, nodding back.

They didn’t speak as they raced down the stairways to the cellars. Their unexpected attack ensured that what was left of the garrison was in disarray and most of the soldiers were still looking for the mage responsible for blowing through their front gate. It meant he only needed to kill two more men before they’d reached the cooler levels belowground.

The cellar was split into a large space where most of the dry goods were stored and two rooms off to the side. Jaskier headed for the door with a padlock on the outside, trying to breathe through the anxious energy that made every movement jittery. 

He pressed an ear against the old wood to try to hear for any sound on the other side. The silence brought a wave of disappointment, but didn’t stop him from gesturing to Yennefer. “Can you break it?”

Yennefer’s face twisted into a mask of sympathy. “Jaskier…”   
  


_ “Can you break it? _ ”

Stiffly, she nodded and made a complicated gesture towards the metal lock. It fell to the ground with a dull clunk that Jaskier barely heard in his haste to pull open the large door. His fingers fumbled on the handle and his muscles groaned with effort, but he managed to heave it open to reveal the small room beyond.

His breath left him in a rush of raw hope and grief.

There, in the center of what once had been a wine cellar, was a wide table with a body covered in a bloodstained sheet and chained to its surface. 

For a moment, Jaskier wondered if he had been too late once again and he made a rough, agonized sound. Yennefer moved into the doorway at his side, her eyes hard and flat. She reached out for him even as he stepped forward. They both jerked at the sound of rough metal grating against the stone. 

Thoughts of revenge and funerals disappeared beneath the tidal wave of frantic need to get to Geralt’s side. He ran forward as Geralt shifted again, head turning back and forth like he was trying to find the source of some scent. Blood dripped in dark patterns along the floor that Jaskier ignored as he closed the distance and let his eyes settle on the face of the man he loved.

This close, he looked worse than any of the other countless times Jaskier had seen him after a hunt. Geralt’s face was a mass of bruising that left dark circles around bloodshot eyes that stared blearily up at the ceiling. They darted toward Jaskier’s face without any sort of understanding, a frown furrowing his familiar features.

“Geralt,” Jaskier whispered, tears blurring his vision for a moment. “I found you.”

Instead of relaxing at the touch of Jaskier’s fingers on his face, Geralt twisted, pulling against the restraints until fresh blood splattered on the floor. The movement dislodged the sheet that had covered him and revealed the true horror of what had been done to the Witcher.

Deep lines had been carved down Geralt’s chest to match the sluggishly bleeding hole left behind by the enchanted blade that had helped them capture him. His skin was pale and fragile looking without the gleam of life that usually filled it. The bruises and cuts were joined by burn marks all down his arms above the metal cuffs. Muscle and bone gleamed wetly and Jaskier’s hands hovered helplessly above the ruined mass of flesh. 

Torture was too kind a word for this kind of devastation.

“Oh gods, Geralt,” Jaskier said as his stomach rebelled against the sight of this pain. “It’s okay. You’re going to be okay.”

Yennefer rushed forward, breaking the metal cuffs even as Geralt continued to thrash. There was no sign of recognition in those fever bright eyes and Jaskier felt his shattered heart break again at the soft sounds of terror that escaped his tightly gritted teeth.

“He’s lost too much blood,” the mage said as she helped him subdue Geralt, “We’ll need Tris.”

“Then fucking take us to her.”

Geralt made another one of those horrible sounds of panic and Jaskier leaned closer, hoping maybe the familiar sight and scent would help calm him. “Geralt, it’s me. Dear heart, it’s me. I won’t let them hurt you again. We’re gonna get you out of here. You’re gonna be okay.”

There was a roar of sound and the familiar ripple of power a moment before the walls around them disappeared.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At least they found him?
> 
> Next comes the comfort to pair with the hurt.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you thought Geralt being rescued was going to knock me off my angsty bullshit, think again!

Hands reached for the body cradled in his arms and Jaskier flinched away before familiar voices cut in through the thunder of his heartbeat and the agony of seeing Geralt so still. 

“Gods,” Tris breathed in horror, practiced hands already reaching for whatever potions and concoctions that could fix this, this--

He forced his lungs to fill with air saturated with the iron tang of blood and continue to stare at Geralt’s chest, counting the seconds between each new breath. His body knew the rhythm of a Witcher’s slowed heart better than anyone, but it did nothing against the fresh wave of panic in his mind each time he registered the heartbeat barely fluttering against his fingertips. 

_ tooslowtooslowohgodsitsstilltooslow _

“Bring him to the table,” the mage ordered.

Yennefer reached to help Jaskier move him, but he bared his teeth at her in a blatant threat. There was no way he could let anyone touch Geralt after this. Not after he’d allowed such torments to fall on his Witcher. Even the burn of effort from his straining muscles wasn’t enough to have him allowing someone close.

Settling him on the table--hastily cleared of the herbs Tris must have been mixing--Jaskier hovered nearby, tired eyes memorizing the map of pain and torture before they were healed. He would never allow himself to forget this.

There was bruising around his wrists from where he’d fought against the chains at his wrists and ankles. The raw flesh would need to be cleaned, but it was the worst of his worries compared to the damage done to the rest of his body. Tris pulled back the sheet to take in the worst of the damage and Jaskier didn’t need a Witcher’s hearing to pick up the sound of her teeth grating in fury.

For the first time since they’d met, Geralt looked small.

The lines he’d seen briefly in the room where they’d rescued Geralt were now exposed fully and his eyes traced the cruel marks, connecting them in a way he couldn’t before.

_ Cahir _ .

Jaskier felt his knuckles pop as he clenched his fists at his side. He should have made sure this pain was brought back to the Nilfgaardian tenfold. Carved his own message in blood and bones until the man begged him for death. Burning alive was too kind an end. 

“Jaskier,” Yennefer murmured softly and his expression must have been grim if the sorceress was attempting to fucking  _ comfort _ him.

Whatever he might have said in reply was lost beneath a complicated wave of relief and horror when Geralt stirred once more, a soft gasp of pain emitting from between clenched teeth.

Immediately Jaskier moved forward, reaching out to touch Geralt with a shaking hand only to jerk away when the Witcher flinched. The yellow ring around his eyes were nearly nonexistent against wide black pupils that couldn’t seem to focus on anything or anyone in the room. He shook his head, listless and fitfull, muscles twitching as he tried to pull himself upright.

Tris moved forward instinctively, pushing him back against the table even as he began to fight in earnest against them.

“Geralt,” Jaskier said, trying to soothe some of his wild panic, “Geralt, it’s us. We got you out. You’re safe--”

“NO!” Geralt roared, shoving Tris with surprising strength and sending her crashing into the wall. “Don’t touch me!”

Jaskier moved closer, desperate to try to keep him from injuring himself further. When he touched Geralt’s feverish skin, familiar eyes snapped to him without any relief in his expression. Instead, something close to horror bloomed there.

“Not you…” he breathed, blinking until tears ran into matted silver hair, “No, not you. Nononononononono--”

With every word, Geralt began to thrash on the table until blood dripped onto the floor, fighting with everything in him to get away from Jaskier. Tris shouted something, but Jaskier couldn’t seem to hear anything but the terror in Geralt’s voice at the sight of him. His mouth opened and closed as words failed him for the first time in his life. 

Geralt was scared  _ of him _ .

“Geralt…” Jaskier pleaded a little helplessly, feeling the broken pieces of his heart grate against his ribs.

All he got in response was another gut wrenching sound of pain as Geralt began to arch against the table, fighting against the firm hands trying to hold him still. It was a marker of just how weak he’d become that Tris could even manage that much. 

Yennefer flung an arm out to the pale faced bard as she rushed to help the other mage. “Jaskier! Get out of the room--you’re only making it worse!”

Swallowing hard, Jaskier slowly began to step backwards, feeling his heart breaking as Geralt began to settle more the farther away he moved. His eyes stung, lungs filling in rapid bursts that made his head feel like it was floating. He gritted his teeth and tried to tell himself that he deserved this pain for all the ways he’d failed Geralt in the last two days. He deserved this suffering.

Wordless and heart broken, Jaskier spun on his heel and mindlessly walked through the door.

* * *

He didn’t go far, of course.

Even if Geralt wasn’t close to death, he had only a bare knowledge of the castle where Tris lived. He had no interest in wandering through unfamiliar halls when all he could focus on was the way Geralt had looked at him. The way Geralt had fought to get  _ away _ from him.

All at once, the physical and mental exhaustion from the day seemed overwhelming and it was all he could do to slide down the wall next to the doorway in a crumpled heap.

His muscles trembled as he finally allowed them to relax into the floor, no longer fueled by the vengeance that had kept him up for the past two nights. Instead he let his mind go blank, staring at the bloodstains on his fingers. He could feel his skin begin to itch as the gore that covered most of him began to dry and flake off, but he couldn’t be bothered to wash it off. It was a reminder that he had at least ensured that the garrison would not be able to retaliate anytime soon. 

The thought of the bodies he’d created was meaningless to him now. He’d do it again and again if it meant saving Geralt from the scars he would now carry for the rest of his life. There was none of the regret he would have expected from all the years he’d spent avoiding the skills his father had taught. Whatever he might have felt was paltry compared to the vicious satisfaction of ensuring that every drop of blood lost by Geralt was repaid tenfold by Nilfgaard.

There was a part of him that wondered if he should regret what he’d done. The thought of what his father might have said--or that his father might have  _ approved _ \--was miniscule against the memories of Geralt’s panic. Jaskier curled his knees up to his chest and tried not to think about what he would do if Geralt didn’t agree.

He would go if he asked, Jaskier told himself. He would leave and try to lose himself in a place where he would never again stumble upon another Witcher. He would end his days with the memory of Geralt’s smile and the press of his lips against his skin. It was more than he deserved.

Jaskier stared at the wall across from him and tried very hard to think about nothing at all.

* * *

The sound of the door opening jarred him from his thoughts and send his heart skipping with nerves.

Seeing Yennefer was a gift and a curse. If she were coming out to speak with him, it meant that Geralt wasn’t capable of going out for himself or that he still didn’t want to see him. Jaskier got to his feet without acknowledging the way his body shrieked in protest, stiff now from sitting on the floor for so long. He told himself that he wouldn’t break down if it was the latter, but he could help the way his eyes darted to the room beyond for some glimpse of the Witcher before she closed the door quietly.

Some of his thoughts must have shown on his face because Yennefer gave him a sympathetic look through the lines of exhaustion marring her beauty. “He’s sleeping,” she said gently. “Tris is watching over him.”

“Will he…?” Words seemed to fail him then and he looked at her almost plaintively.

“We are keeping him sedated for now. They gave him some kind of potion that fucked with his enhancements, we think. Made him easier to contain.” She huffed out a breath and raked a hand through her dark hair. “I don’t know what it might have done to his healing.”

Jaskier nodded stiffly, swallowing through the emotions threatening to overwhelm him. “Thank you for helping me, Yen,” he said softly, “If you hadn’t come, he might have…”

“Well, he’s not out of the woods yet unfortunately,” she replied, hiding her own worry beneath briskness. Then violet eyes were shifting to focus on him, “What of you, then? Were you injured in your headlong dash in vengeance?”

He shrugged, his bodily pain felt too distant compared to everything else.

She sighed and nudged his shoulder to get him moving down the hallway. “Come on then, bardling. Let’s get you cleaned up. You won’t want Geralt to see you like this.”

They both ignored the reality that Geralt very well might never see him again.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed another example of Yennefer being soft for her two idiots.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You've had the hurt, now you get the comfort.

It wasn’t until Yennefer was pushing him into the small bathing area adjacent to one of the comfortable guest rooms that Jaskier realized just how exhausted he was. 

He stood there, muscles twitching with cramps and strain, as the mage tugged him into place and began to pull him out of bloodsoaked clothing. They’d already dried into tacky wrinkles and released a flurry of rust colored dust onto the tile floor.

Jaskier stared at the floor blankly, remembering for the first time the faces of the men he’d gutted against the horror on Geralt’s face when he’d looked up and seen the bard there.

His stomach heaved and Yennefer shoved a bucket under his mouth with a curse only a moment before he vomited bile and the meager remains of his food from the day before. He curled over the disgusting mess until tears streaked down his cheeks and he was trembling with the effort not to collapse. Yen’s hand smoothed over his back in a comforting stroke that made him want to sob.

He didn’t deserve her comfort. He’d become the very weapon he’d feared.

For Geralt, he told himself firmly, for Geralt he would throw himself against the rocks again and again like the waves on the coastline he’d never seen. 

He would stay until Geralt was healed. If Geralt sent him away, he would go. He could teach himself how to live without his Witcher and his heart.

Yennefer nudged at his shoulder when his stomach finally settled and pushed him in the direction of the tub where he began to strip mechanically. In the past he might have been concerned with being naked in front of the beautiful mage, but now he only felt cold. The cloth of his shirt and pants clung to his skin and left streaky lines of rust. He shivered when the last of his stained clothing dropped to the floor.

Cuts and slowly forming bruises dotted and slashed across his skin, bleeding sluggishly. Jaskier gave them a critical glance before dismissing them as negligible. Considering his headlong rush towards death, it was more than lucky that he hadn’t limped away with more to show for it. His body and unused muscles would probably be screaming at him within the next few hours, but the bath would help with some of that. Rest would be better, but he doubted he’d be able to close his eyes when Geralt’s terrified, abused body was waiting for him there.

A firm hand directed him towards the tub and he sank into the warm water. It felt shocking against the bone deep numbness that seemed to be spreading outward from the empty space in his chest where his heart used to reside. He stared down into the water and curled his knees to his chest in a subtle mimicry of his position outside of Geralt’s room.

The room where Geralt had banished him away from.

“Oh bardling,” Yennefer crooned sympathetically and he blinked at the realization that tears were dripping down his chin into the water.

Without attempting to spur him into movement, she fished out a washcloth from nearby and began to quickly and methodically wash away the worst of the blood and sweat. If he was feeling more...alive, he might have teased her about playing handmaiden to him. Now, he couldn’t seem to summon up the words.

To her credit, Yennefer didn’t push him toward their usual barbs and antagonisms. She just ran the cloth over bruising skin until the scent of blood was washed away by bright florals and deeper notes of cedar. He tilted his head back when she indicated and stared up at the old wooden ceiling while she rinsed out the blood matted into his hair. 

“I never thought I’d miss hearing you talk,” she said when she let him sink back down into the water that must have been spelled to remain clean. 

He grunted, too tired to try to summon up words and risk falling back under the crushing panic of before. 

Yennefer put her hand on the arm he’d settled on the lip of the tub and waited until he dragged his eyes up to meet hers. “He’ll be wanting to see you when he wakes up. Tris thinks it could happen as early as tomorrow evening.”

“You don’t know that.” His voice sounded raw with grief. “You saw how he reacted to me.”

“You know he wasn’t in his right mind--they had him on so many drugs he probably didn’t recognize you.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Jaskier said, “He won’t want me back now anyway.”

“Why? Because you killed those men?” Yennefer scoffed. “How many times have you washed the blood off his hands after a hunt?”

He didn’t answer, just stared into the water.

She sighed and muttered under her breath, “Men.” The bottles of soap returned to their shelves and a pile of clothes were set on the bench beside him. He knew without looking that they weren’t his. His pack and lute were still in the clearing where he’d let Roach loose to follow after Geralt’s attackers.

Before he could ask, Yennefer continued, “Roach is in the stables with a number of stableboys answering her every whim. Tris sent for your clothes to be cleaned or I would’ve brought you some of the rags you like to prance around in.”

The joke fell a little flat, but he gave her a ghost of a smile. “Thank you, Yennefer.”

“Don’t expect this kind of service all the time,” she warned without any real malice, “I have seen enough of your bare ass to last even my lifetime.”

The mage sailed out the door without any indication of the worry that had gentled her hands to an unusual softness. He didn’t blame her for the act or the feeble attempts at regaining control of the situation.

Jaskier remained in the tub until the water was cold enough for him to begin to shiver. It helped urge him back to his feet and over to the dry clothing and towels waiting for him. The movement and water opened a few of the deeper cuts, but he was quick to press the towel against the injuries until it clotted again before moving on to towel dry his hair.

Mechanically, he pushed his feet into the dark pants that were far more suited to Yennefer and Geralt’s tastes than his own brighter wardrobe. They fit snugly enough that Jaskier wondered if the sorceress fancied herself a tailor. The shirt sleeves were long enough to hide the marks left behind by the fight and loose enough that they didn’t put painfully at the other cuts and scrapes. He barely glanced at the black-clad figure in the mirror against the wall aside from noting distantly that he looked like a witcher himself now.

Jaskier let himself back into the hallway and padded down the corridor back to the room where Geralt was still unconscious. Yennefer had given him directions to a set of rooms of his own, but he didn’t bother with them.

The least he could do was keep Geralt safe from anyone else hoping to do him harm.

* * *

  
  


“Anything?”

“No, not yet. He’s sleeping still,” Tris’ voice was soft, “You should too.”

“I’m fine.”

* * *

“Jaskier, have you been out here all this time?” Yennefer asked, looking frustrated.

He didn’t answer, just kept his eyes on the door across from him.

She sighed, but didn’t say anything else when she went inside.

* * *

“How is he?” He could barely get the words past his dry throat.

“The same.”

* * *

Sometimes he thought that this was the punishment he’d deserved when he killed his brother.

* * *

The sound of a crash was so sudden and jarring that Jaskier nearly brained himself when his head snapped back against the wall.

His back ached from the long hours spent sitting on the cold stone floor, but all of that was forgotten in an instant. “Yennefer!” he shouted down the hallway even as he heard a familiar voice gasping inside.

Tris’ soothing tones were audible through the wooden door and he clenched his hands into fists to keep from reaching out for the doorknob. 

_ Geralt doesn’t want you there, _ he told himself, wielding the reminder like a knife against his own impotent panic.

Down the hallway, Yennefer appeared in a flurry of expensive silks. He danced on the balls of his feet, torn between the urge to hurry her along and the need to open the door and help Geralt himself. She must have noticed his indecision because she rolled her eyes at him before she darted inside to help her friend.

Then he was alone again.

Heart thundering in his chest, Jaskier gave in to the urge to cross the hallway to press his hands against the door and lean close enough to hear the voices inside.

“--in Foltest’s castle. We got you out, but you were injured badly. They must have--”

“Where is he?”

“Cahir is dead,” Yennefer said steadily. “He burned with the rest of the Nilfgaardians when we took the fortress. They won’t be able to make a play for you again for some time.”

“I don’t care about Cahir.” Geralt’s voice was little more than a rasp, but it was enough to make Jaskier’s knees weak.  _ “Where is he?” _

Tris tried again to calm Geralt back into the bed, judging by the rustle of sheets. “Geralt, you’ve been injured badly enough that we had to sedate you for days. You’re still weak. You need to--”

“WHERE IS JASKIER?”

The roar made Jaskier jerk away from the door in alarm. He backed away until the familiar cold stone was to his back and swallowed hard. 

Was this moment when Geralt sent Jaskier away for good? Just the thought made his limbs tremble. His eyes burned and he looked down at the ground, fighting down his nerves. He would do it, he swore again. He would walk away and let Geralt heal.

Muffled voices raised on the other side of the door, turning sharp.

There was a creak of wood before it was slammed open to reveal Geralt, heaving with the effort of pushing aside the two mages.

Golden eyes shot to Jaskier even as the bard took in the state of the other man eagerly. Geralt’s hair was loose from its usual tie and framed his face in soft waves that begged to be touched. Someone--probably Tris--had changed him into a pair of loose pants to ward against the chill of the old castle. For some reason, seeing his bare feet on the stone felt heartbreakingly vulnerable. Black stitches painted jagged lines across his chest that made Jaskier’s heart ache at the evidence of all the pain he’d suffered. 

“Geralt…” Jaskier managed in a choked off whisper. “Is, I mean, are you--umph!” His awkward attempt to voice one of the many questions rolling around in his mind was cut short when Geralt darted forward to collide bodily with him.

Jaskier made a sharp sound of surprise when he was pushed back against the wall once more thanks to the Witcher that was, that was...hugging him?

“Geralt?” he repeated dumbly, looking down at the head full of silver hair that was buried against his chest.

“You’re okay.” A deep voice rumbled against him.

Jaskier shivered at the sensation of stubble against his neck. “Of course I’m okay.” He looked up in time to see Yennefer and Tris staring at the two of them with poorly disguised curiosity. Geralt sagged more heavily against Jaskier and he grunted a little at the extra weight. “We should get you back to bed.”

It was obvious that Geralt wasn’t going to release his hold around Jaskier’s waist so they awkwardly shuffled back through the door. Both mages moved to assist him and Tris grumbled under her breath about stitches, but Yen shot her a look that made her go silent.

Geralt had fallen silent now aside from the occasional soft noise of pain that came with each awkward movement that jarred his injuries.

They tried to settle him back down onto the bed, but he only tightened his hold on Jaskier until the bard was forced to sit back against the wall so Geralt could put his head in his lap and keep his arms around his waist. After a slight hesitation, Jaskier let his hands fall to rest on Geralt’s shoulder and the top of his head. He held himself stiffly against the mattress, ready for the moment when the Witcher shoved him away again. 

Yennefer met his eyes with a look full of meaning and nudged at Tris. “You should rest, Geralt. We’ll go get you something to eat.”

Tris frowned at her, but slowly nodded. “Just don’t strain yourself.”

Geralt didn’t acknowledge them from where his face was pressed into Jaskier’s stomach.

The bard watched the two wages walk out the door and shut it behind them with a final sounding click. Then there was nothing but Geralt’s labored breathing and Jaskier’s whirling thoughts.

“Geralt?” he began softly, “Are you--are you alright? Do you remember what happened?”

A shift and then a golden eye was slitted up at him. “I...remember the room,” he finally said slowly.

Jaskier swallowed, fighting against the urge to return to Cahir’s fortress to burn it to the ground. His fingers tightened around Geralt’s shoulder before he forced himself to relax again. He soothed himself by indulging the urge to run his fingers through Geralt’s pale hair while he sorted through his thoughts.

“They...took you. Uh--” He cleared his suddenly dry throat, “-they made it look like you were dead.”

“I wasn’t.” 

Already, Geralt was beginning to sound more alert and it took effort not to shy away from the topic he knew was coming.

“It was Nilfgaard. They wanted Ciri, I guess, or revenge.” Geralt’s hands tightened around his waist at the reminder. “Cahir seemed to have his own reasons for attacking you and he was prepared to hold you for as long as he needed in that cell.”

Geralt grunted, but didn’t comment on the atrocities that were done to him while he was locked in that horrible place. “How did you find me?”

“Well, I wasn’t really looking at first,” Jaskier began, his voice unusually flat. “I thought you were dead so all I could do was try to give you some sort of vengeance.”

Vengeance felt too gentle a word to describe what he’d done to the soldiers he’d fought, but he could seem to summon any kind of remorse.

He was so  _ tired _ .

When the silence began to stretch past Geralt’s patience, the Witcher nudged Jaskier’s side as a silent indicator to continue. It took all of his willpower not to dodge what he knew would come next, but he couldn’t withhold the truth.

“I followed them back to their fortress and began picking them off. Yennefer came to help eventually. I found Cahir.” He swallowed through the rage that was still trapped in his throat at the reminder. “He was hiding in the keep and I--I was going to kill him, but he told me you were really alive. That it had been a trick.”

Jaskier closed his eyes and breathed through the lingering grief. “If I had known Geralt, I--I’m so sorry that I didn’t--”

“Shh, no, Jask,” Geralt hushed him gently and Jaskier was startled to realize he was crying. “It’s not your fault.”

“I killed them, Geralt,” he cut in, refusing to linger in the offered comfort, “I wanted them to suffer. I, I would’ve killed more if I could have, but I had to find you.”

“I know.”

Some of Jaskier’s fraying control seemed to snap at Geralt’s continued calm. “I’m a monster for that. I wasn’t sorry for any of it. I  _ wasn’t _ sorry and I  _ can’t _ be sorry that they’re dead because it means you’re alive and even if you hate me forever I won’t apologize for it.”

Geralt turned to frown up at him. “Why would I hate you forever?”

“You…” his voice cracked like he was still a lad and he had to swallow twice before he could force the words out, “When we brought you to Tris, you...you were afraid of me. You told me to leave, Geralt.”

The silence that fell between them was near painful. He was a prisoner waiting for the gallows. A ship hearing the scrape of stone against the hull. A sinner waiting for the swing of the sword slicing through his neck.

How fitting that a Witcher would wield it.

Geralt shifted against him and Jaskier didn’t stop him when he slowly sat up to face the bard directly. Jaskier’s hands twitched at his side with the need to brace him or to urge him back onto the bed sheets before he hurt himself anew. 

“When I was...there,” Geralt began steadily, dodging the question in Jaskier’s eyes, “they gave me something that took away my strength and all the enhancements I was used to as a witcher. Then they gave me something to make me hallucinate.”

Jaskier winced at the thought of all the nightmares Geralt might have seen.

“They told me that they were hunting for anyone I’ve ever cared for. Anyone who was kind to me.” Bright eyes found his and Jaskier felt his lungs go sideways. “When I saw you come in, covered in blood and smelling like panic, I thought they’d succeeded.”

“But, you shouted at me to get away. You nearly died fighting to get  _ away _ from me,” he argued.

“All I knew was that you were there in the place where they were hurting me,” Geralt said, “I couldn’t think through the pain and the drugs in my system--I just knew I couldn’t let you stay there.”

For the first time in his life, Jaskier felt himself go speechless, awash in the mind numbing relief that swept through him. Geralt didn’t hate him. He’d been  _ afraid _ for him.

“Gods…” he whispered and watched Geralt reach out to brush away a tear before it could fall.

Then he was tumbling forward to cradle Geralt against his chest so he could bury his nose into soft silver hair that smelled of magic and the faintest hint of bold. The Witcher went easily, shuddering a little at the sensation of the bard’s own unique scent surrounding him. It was the opposite of their usual arrangement, but neither complained--too eager to replace the memory of cruel hands with those that stroked and soothed.

Tears dripped freely down Jaskier’s face as he let the emotions he’d been repressing from the moment he saw Geralt fall. He curled himself around the Witcher like he could protect him from harm with his body as a shield. Contrary to his usual nature, Geralt accepted the physical affection like a flower soaking up the sun and pressing even closer.

“Never again,” Jaskier said after his heart beat began to slow and his cheeks were long dry. “Don’t ever leave me alone again.”

Geralt’s thumb traced the curve of Jaskier’s cheek before he pressed a soft kiss to his lips. “Never again,” he agreed.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Endings are always difficult for me to write, but I hope you enjoyed this one. If you have, go check out some of my other stories--most of them are already complete so you won't even have to wait for updates!
> 
> Thank you for reading and for those of you that take the time to leave kudos or comments! You da real MVPs! <3

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think!


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